Things You Think and Things You Know
by Alicia K
Summary: Third story in the "Black Coffee in Bed" series.


Title: Things You Think and Things You Know  
Author: Alicia K.  
Email: spartcus1@msn.com  
Rating: PG-13, for language  
Category: mention of Scully/Other, Angst  
Spoilers: Only for the previous stories in the series.  
Summary: Mulder's turn.   
Archive: Spookys are fine, anywhere else please ask.  
Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to Fox and   
1013. No infringement is intended.  
  
Author's Note: This is the third story in the "Black   
Coffee In Bed" series. This won't make much sense if   
you haven't read those. They can be found at my site:  
http://members.dencity.com/aliciak/fanfic.html  
  
I thought I'd jump on the second-person POV   
bandwagon. Tons of thanks, as always, to my beta   
readers: Joanna, Mish, and hap. Double thanks to hap,   
for the ending.  
  
XXX  
  
You think you've finally gotten it right. You have a   
woman - no, wait - you have THE woman. She's   
agreed, she's smiled upon you, she wants to be with   
you.  
  
You think you'd be surprised at how easy it is to hurt   
each other, but you're not. Not really.  
  
All it takes is one secret, one secret so long and so   
carefully hidden, so accidentally found and so quickly   
thrust in your face.  
  
You know that this woman means more to you than any   
other in the entire world, save perhaps for your sister,   
and you know that you've hurt her more deeply than   
you've hurt her before.  
  
And you have hurt her before - not intentionally, and   
not that she'd ever place the blame on you, but oh yes,   
she's been hurt by your single-minded and arrogant   
quest. She could attest to this by pointing to her dead   
sister, her dead daughter, her dead ovaries.  
  
But never before had you reached inside her chest and   
forced your fingers around her warm, dark heart. Never   
before had you crawled inside and made her bleed so   
red and rich.  
  
She stands at your hospital bed and you can smell it on   
her. You can smell the blood leaking from the holes   
you dug in her heart; you can smell the sex on her body;   
you can smell her betrayal and ferocity, and it hurts   
more than you've ever hurt before.  
  
You could not mention it, you could take that hurt and   
harbor it deep inside of you, feeding on it until you are   
once again cocooned in that safe haven of guilt. But   
you don't. You turn on her, suddenly sure that you   
want to see if she'll bleed again for you; how much of   
herself will she let you scrape away?  
  
"This is so fucked up," she says, and though you know   
what she means, you play dumb, wanting to see how far   
you can take this, to see what you have to do before she   
retreats.  
  
"Us, Mulder. We are." She glares at you, as if wanting   
to know what you could possibly gain by pushing her.   
You want to laugh, knowing there is nothing to gain.  
  
You close your eyes, if only for a moment, needing a   
brief respite from the emotions in her gaze: you see   
hatred and confusion, but not the remorse or guilt that   
you were expecting . . . hoping for.  
  
Your words are harsh, your eyes deny admittance to the   
tears that crawl their way up your throat. Vulgarities   
are exchanged as if they were greetings - they roll off   
your tongue and stick to her skin, her skin that still   
smells of her new friend.   
  
She spits them back at you, refusing to let you twist the   
knife in her open wound.  
  
With one last jab, you turn away from her and listen to   
the door slam as she leaves you.  
  
When she is gone, you look to the empty chair that she   
had occupied and wonder if the seat is still warm, if it   
bears the imprint of her tense body.  
  
Trying to ignore the sharp pain in your head, you get   
out of the bed and walk the four steps to the chair,   
cursing the lack of concentration that led to your being   
cold-cocked by the suspect.  
  
You stretch out a hand to the chair and press gently at   
the cadet blue fabric. It isn't warm, and you're   
disappointed. Part of you wonders if she was ever there   
at all.  
  
The fingers of your left hand are splayed over the faded   
cushion, and you look at your ring finger, trying to   
remember what it looked like with the thin band of   
gold.  
  
Pulling your hand back to the slight comfort of your   
body, you let out a small sigh and reach for your   
clothes. The nurses will lecture you and tell you that   
you can't go to sleep, that you need to stay for   
observation, that you will be leaving AMA.   
  
You know all of these things, but you also know that   
there will be no sleep coming tonight.  
  
After the lecture and the drive, you return home to find   
that it's cold in your apartment. The temperature has   
dropped, and you feel very quiet and alone there.  
  
Not bothering to turn the lights on, you sit in the hard-  
backed chair at your desk and stare at the fish tank.   
You try to remember the last time you even had fish in   
it, but give up when you realize that you have no idea.   
You continue to stare at the bubbling tank anyway.  
  
You love her. There's nothing more that can be said   
that won't take away from the intensity with which you   
love her. With which you've loved her for years. You   
can't believe that she let you kiss her on New Year's   
Eve. You can't believe that she listened without   
embarrassment or discomfort to your quiet, heartfelt   
words five nights later, when you told her that you   
loved her, that you wanted to be with her.  
  
She smiled, a bright and rare light, and took your face   
in her hands and kissed you. She echoed your words in   
a simple manner that made your heart feel as if it were   
glowing. She expressed her concern that a more   
intimate relationship could not last if you both   
continued lurching down the unpaved road of   
miscommunication, whose rock-strewn ruts had   
become familiar, even comfortable to the two of you   
over the years.  
  
You agreed eagerly, but already felt the pang of guilt as   
you realized that you didn't want to tell her everything.   
There were some secrets that should remain locked   
inside your heart.  
  
You agonized over that secret for days, knowing she   
would be hurt that you hadn't told her years ago. She   
would wonder why your records show your marital   
status as 'single' instead of 'divorced.'  
  
Of course, being the single-minded, arrogant fool that   
you are, you forgot that you had kept the physical   
reminder of your biggest mistake. Of course you never   
imagined that she would stumble across it and that you   
would make her bleed.  
  
You could tell her, "Take it, Scully. Take it. It belongs   
to you, just like everything else." You could press the   
ring into her palm and close her fingers around it, as if   
it were the most precious gift you could ever give her,   
but it won't stop the bleeding.  
  
You watched her walk out the door and down the hall,   
calling her name as both a plea and a curse. The   
elevator doors closed between the two of you, and it felt   
like a slap.  
  
Now you sit in the dark, scared because you don't know   
how to even begin to fix it. And you cry.  
  
In the middle of your self-loathing tears, there's a   
knock at the door. You know there's only one person it   
can be, and you wait for her to use her key.  
  
"Why aren't you at the hospital?" she asks, her voice   
calm but not particularly kind.  
  
You swipe at your eyes and clear your throat. "Come   
on, Scully," you tell her, trying to keep your voice   
steady. "I've walked away from hospitals with worse   
than a concussion and a broken bone."  
  
She locks the door behind her and sits on the couch,   
hands templed under her chin. Her hair is wet, and you   
realize that she's taken a shower, washing the evidence   
of your pain away.  
  
"Why did you going back to the hospital?" you ask her,   
picking at a loose bit of plaster on your cast. "I didn't   
think I'd see you . . ." You let your words trail away,   
not wanting to finish the sentence: again.  
  
She sits back and stares unblinkingly up at the ceiling.   
"You tell me, Mulder." You're not really sure what she   
wants to hear, and your lips form silent words around   
your fumbling answer. "You tell me why I felt the need   
to be at your side when I was so sure I hated you."  
  
You stand up, your knees popping from sitting for so   
long, and pass a hand over your mouth. "I don't know,   
Scully," you whisper, feeling suddenly bone weary.   
You'd just as soon not have this or any conversation   
tonight (this morning), but are afraid that if you turn her   
away now, the damage will most surely be irreparable.   
  
The two of you are silent for long, uncomfortable   
minutes, and you wish that she wasn't sitting where you   
wanted to lie.  
  
"So who is she?" she finally asks, her voice tight.   
  
You hear a hint of fear in her question, and you wonder   
if she's thinking of Diana. "Kathleen. But she 'was,'   
Scully. There is no 'is,' I told you that."  
  
She ignores your emphatic words and gives a short,   
humorless laugh. "Kathleen Mulder. Has a lovely ring   
to it, doesn't it?"  
  
Your voice gains volume, frustrated that she's not   
really listening to what you're saying, but knowing   
deep down that it probably doesn't make much   
difference anyway. "Yeah, it would have, but she kept   
her own last name."  
  
Silence descends upon the room again, and you stand   
across from her, arms folded over your chest, rocking   
slightly from foot to foot.   
  
"So are you going to tell me what happened, or will I   
find that when I'm looking for a corkscrew?"  
  
You want to laugh at that, but her expression is still   
unforgiving, so you just bite your lip and tell her the   
truth you've denied her. "She cheated on me." You   
shrug a little. "I cheated back."  
  
"Oh," she says, obviously drawing the parallels   
between your ex-wife and herself.  
  
"No, Scully, not 'oh,'" you argue. "It . . . it was a   
mistake."  
  
Her eyes meet yours, and you're surprised to see the   
shine of tears there. "Am I a mistake, too?" Your   
mouth drops open, and she continues before you can   
protest. "You couldn't share this with me after seven   
years, and I've given you everything." Her voice is soft   
and trembling. "You said that everything belonged to   
me, but Mulder, you should have given it to me." She   
looks down at her hands, folded loosely in her lap. "I   
feel like I stumbled across something you didn't want   
me to have, but I asked you for it anyway."  
  
You feel a little lost, and you're not sure if it's from   
exhaustion, or if her emotions are making her unclear.   
All you can think to say is "I'm sorry." It isn't until   
after the words leave your lips that you realize that you   
mean it, that you would do anything to take it all back.  
  
You take a step toward her, but she raises a trembling   
hand, telling you without words to keep away. "I'm   
sorry, too," she says, and you frown. Does she mean   
she's sorry for what she's done? Or sorry that you   
didn't give her what she needed?  
  
For right now, it doesn't matter. Her words are enough   
to give you a very small bit of comfort. "Well," you   
murmur, shuffling your feet awkwardly on the floor.   
  
You move into the kitchen and fiddle aimlessly with   
some dirty dishes. Picking up a glass, sudden anger   
flares through you, and you smash it against the edge of   
the sink, surprised when it shatters against the metal.  
  
Turning to grab the dust broom from the closet, you see   
her standing there in the doorway, arms around her   
middle as if for protection. The unmistakable sheen of   
tears makes her eyes shine a brilliant blue, but you   
know that she's gritting her teeth to keep the tears from   
falling. "I'm sorry," she repeats in a fierce whisper.  
  
You want to go to her, you want to take her in your   
arms and crush her to you, crush her until the events of   
the last hours are erased, but you remain by the sink,   
gripping the remnants of the glass.  
  
"Mulder, you're bleeding." Blinking rapidly, she   
approaches you. You let her raise your hand and pry   
your fingers from around the jagged glass. She bends   
intently over your hand, inspecting the cuts in your   
skin, and all you can do is stare down at the top of her   
head and ache.  
  
You don't realize you're crying until she reaches a hand   
up to your cheek with a touch that is both awkward and   
tender. She is still fighting her own tears, and your   
chest is tight.  
  
"I can't lose you," you choke, wanting so badly to   
touch her but afraid of what her rejection would do to   
you.  
  
She continues to press her warm hand to your skin, and   
you wet her palm with your tears.  
  
You're standing ankle-deep in shards of fear, confusion,   
and pain. She is looking up at you, and you can see the   
same splinters in her eyes, the bleeding you caused.   
But you don't see rejection and you don't see despair,   
and you realize that you can reach down into the jagged   
pile inside you and brush against the edge of hope.  
  
XXX  
  
Not enough for ya? There will be an epilogue, of sorts.  
  
Feedback lovingly embraced at spartcus1@msn.com  
  
Thanks for reading!   
  
  



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